The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories

by Stephen Alter

  I bought you some tea—what’s wrong with that, any way? Where has it been decreed that you alone must buy it? You helped me to get the luggage out of the train. Was that a small matter?

  III

  For two years I was in Bangalore and yet how is it we never met? To tell you the truth, I got to know a lot of people during those years. The Ladies’ Hostel is of course my own. The women who work there come to me whenever they need anything. I never participated much in college life though. It’s not that I had my nose in books. Somehow I just didn’t feel drawn to those routine activities.

  Professor Gurupadaswaami had once referred in class to your Prize Essay. He praised you too. Every year the prize goes to someone; for me it merely meant that you had won it that particular year. If you had been in our class, this information might have roused more interest! But you were a post-graduate student and we had just joined college. Gurupadaswaami is a good teacher, don’t you think? I managed to get full marks from him in the first year exam. But there, I have begun my own tale.

  It is perfectly restful here. Appa works all day. He is writing a new book. At times like these he can’t bear anyone, not even me, near him. I then occupy myself with the house—which means that I take great care to do everything without disturbing Appa.

  The other day a young professor of Linguistics from Poona had been here to see him. He has a doctorate from the Sorbonne. He stayed with us for two days. He had come to discuss his new theory of aesthetics with Appa.

  Appa listened carefully to everything he had to say. He discussed a little with him. But the question he raised at the end I thought very suggestive. The Durga of Navaratri, the Rama-Lakshmana-Sita images of Ramalila, the clay idols of the Ganesha festival—the craftsman who fashions all these knows that their existence is brief and still expends all his art on them. Why?

  The professor’s view was that in such cases the artist is not at all concerned with whether his work of art has a brief or a long existence. All his attention is centred on perfecting his creation.

  Appa, it seemed, was hardly satisfied with this answer. ‘Oneness’—‘Samadhi’—he fights shy of such words. His usual comment on such an explanation is that it is mere paraphrase.

  I was around and ventured to say. This is my Durga, this is my Rama, this is my Sita, this is my Ganesha—it is with this feeling that the craftsman works.

  I felt that Appa approved of this explanation. He added: The maker perfects himself. Colour, bamboo, paper, clay, stone—it is not enough to call them mere instruments. If these are instruments, the maker too is an instrument. These are actually other aspects of the maker himself.

  I am writing this specifically for you. Your thesis was on a similar subject.

  IV

  This happened on the day I lost my guitar. I had frolicked about a lot that day with wild flowers in my hair.

  Some of us went on a picnic to a small, rather thickly wooded hill nearby. Actually it is not one hill, but a cluster of seven hillocks, merging into one another. Round these parts they call it the House of the Seven Virgins. There is quite an intricate legend about it. Seven young girls of seven okkas (a group of family households) couldn’t find husbands and they were also harassed at home. So they left the village and each of them made a home for herself here. After some time such thick woods grew round the houses that they disappeared from sight. Later there wasn’t a trace left of them. In their place rose these seven hills. Young girls have to offer prayers to them. Men are not supposed to go anywhere near them. If they do, they get lost in these woods. There are instances of a few who have even disappeared.

  One of us had brought one of our brothers along. He and I lost our way. He was scared, but he didn’t show it. I remained quite calm. It was impossible to turn back. One walked following the slope—but then again right in the middle rose the hump of a big hill. Heaven knows what happened eventually. We got down exactly at the point where we had begun the ascent. The rest of them had been waiting anxiously.

  We didn’t mention this to anyone at home.

  V

  After waiting for six days, I am writing this letter. You haven’t misunderstood my innocent words, have you? I am worried, perhaps needlessly. Please forget what I wrote.

  Quite often I fail to understand the implications of my actions. I do something naturally and unreservedly. But then somebody makes me realize later that it just doesn’t mean what I had in mind. I am quite used to this now.

  Henceforth I shall learn to behave like the rest.

  VI

  Yesterday’s letter from you reassured me a lot. All my fears were unfounded then!

  Now all of a sudden I find I am bored here. Couldn’t you come down for a few days? There is a lot to see near the place. Besides, the Bhadrakali festival is held about this time. In this district it is quite an important event.

  Do come. I shall be your guide.

  VII

  Never mind if your thesis is a little delayed. Perhaps there are more chances of its getting an impetus here. You might even light upon some unexpected sources of art.

  Appa’s book is now taking further shape. For the last ten days he has been writing all the time. He begins with ‘Experience’. We ‘experience’ a new thing or a situation—that is, we move forward from the past. An ‘experience’ undergone is a graph drawn with the assistance of memory by going backwards from the existing state. In both cases present existence is not taken into account at all—that is what he says. I am trying to grasp all this.

  Let me know what things I can do to drag you here.

  VIII

  I am so happy you have decided to come. Rajamma is in a greater flurry than I am. (She thinks you are coming to ‘inspect’ me.) When I spoke to Appa he said: If he’s a friend of yours, let him come. And then he asked me casually if you could type. Really, can you? But don’t panic. He has no intention of making you sit and work, and I, none at all.

  But in the temple festival, as is the custom here, you will have to take part in the music and dance.

  IX

  I must give you detailed instructions about how to get here.

  This is a hill country. You get off the train at Rajnad. There you board the Tirupet bus and travel thirty miles into the interior. From there another two miles in a buggy to our house. I shall wait for you at Tirupet on Wednesday. We shall get here in our buggy. You will recognize me, won’t you? These thirty-seven days we have got to know each other very well through our letters. Actually we have met only once, on that day.

  I shall have my favourite pale purple sari on. There will be two choice flowers in my hands to greet you. When you see me, raise the stick in your hand.

  We won’t go straight home from Tirupet. I shall carry lunch with me. We will take your luggage and go to the Kannir lake which is close by. There is an old Hoysala temple near the lake. We will have our lunch there and then go home. Whenever I go to Tirupet, I always visit that place.

  Now your programme! You say you will stay only a week. That’s a bit of a problem. I had fixed a fortnight’s programme for you. On Wednesday—nothing at all, just enough to overcome the fatigue of the journey. You will meet Appa at dinner time. He may not say a word. Or he may ask a string of questions. I should be prepared for any of these eventualities. Even if he doesn’t speak at all, he observes everything closely. If our hospitality is found wanting, even in the slightest detail, he will scold me later.

  On Thursday morning we shall visit our plantation. You can see all the oranges you ever wanted to see. We will lunch there by Venkappa’s raised hut and enjoy his hospitality. We shall be back home by four in the afternoon. After dinner, there is my veena recital—by special public request.

  Friday morning you will have to be on your own. On Friday I go and teach in a girls’ school here. With you here, I shan’t be able to teach. On that day Appa will chat with you on his own. You will get to know each other well. In the evening we will go out for a walk. The bazaar and the houses
here will be quite new to you.

  Saturday is the tenth day of the great festival. That evening everybody takes part in the dance. I have tidied up Appa’s old costume for you.

  Sunday, I have kept free for visitors. On Sunday night, if you feel like it, we could go and watch a folk-play. It will remind you somewhat of the Yakshagana.

  On Monday evening you will lecture at the Local Association. I have suggested the subject—’The Art of Man’. You could, of course, change it to ‘Shakespeare’s Heroines’ or ‘Ocean Plants’.

  Since you yourself have decreed that you will return on Wednesday, I have kept Tuesday free again—for you to do whatever you want to.

  When you come, don’t bring anything for me.

  X

  I have drawn up some rules for myself on the eve of your arrival.

  To be up before everyone else; to be the last to go to bed.

  To speak softly to the servants.

  To guess what the guest would prefer without asking him.

  Not to be needlessly flurried.

  To use one’s conversational skill in moderate proportion.

  Not to burst into song needlessly.

  To leave the guest to himself sometimes. (You must have noticed that I have kept this in mind while drawing up your programme.)

  Not to take as literally true what the other says about oneself.

  XI

  The last four days I was anxious because I hadn’t heard from you. And now the letter that arrived today has left me utterly disappointed. Why did you change your plans all of a sudden? You say that you are going to England. But that’s still a long way off—there are nearly three months to go. You don’t need that long to get things ready. The real reason could perhaps be something quite different. How shall I know it? And in any case, who am I to want to know it? ‘Heart, be comforted!’ I don’t have the courage to say even this—and the right, none at all.

  When we were children, my friend’s brother was once to have come from a far-off place. I saw her weep because he didn’t come. I even teased her. Then I too sat and wept with her. Today I didn’t weep. Why? Because I am beginning to learn that one shouldn’t look too far ahead nor try to reshape what has already taken place. What has happened must be left as it is—far away. By holding on to it, the shades tend to grow faint; that’s all.

  Now I have started remembering things, one by one. After coming back here for the holidays, I have hardly written to anyone. I haven’t really met people either. I had no idea how time passed.

  XII

  Just recently while re-reading one of your letters, I laughed at myself. I don’t know what ideas you have formed about me! I am not as orderly as you think. You might perhaps have thought so because I am by nature a little cold and not so easily flustered. Even now, today, I am writing to you calmly, am I not?

  You were kind enough to enquire about Appa’s book. These five or six days his work seems to have slowed down, too. He has gone to spend a few days with Mr Edgeworth, an English planter who lives nearby. At one time Mr Edgeworth was at Appa’s Oxford, which accounts for the warmth of their friendship. Every month or so he comes to Appa for a day or two or else Appa goes and stays with him. I have known him since I was a child. He still declares that I have often pulled his brown whiskers. He is more than fifty-five years old and still a bachelor. He works and reads to his heart’s content and mixes freely with all the people around. Appa has already conferred upon him an honorary membership of our okka.

  Edgeworth has his own peculiar notions. One of these is about rebirth. He believes that he was a Coorgi in his last birth. For has he not spent some thirty to thirty-two years of his life in Coorg, wholly engrossed in and at one with the life here? He declares that if this were not so he would never have come to this part of the world at all.

  I once asked him in fun: Where is the Coorgi wife you married in your last birth? He was serious for a while and then he said: Sau, they didn’t find me a wife in my last birth. I said to myself: Not in the last birth, so not in this. Does that mean there will be no marriage for him in any of the future births? An unaccountable sadness came over me. But he laughed almost immediately and said: In my next birth, I shall come here again. But as a Coorgi woman. Then I will be married off soon. Isn’t that right? Appa laughed too, and they began chatting as usual.

  How far have the preparations for your departure progressed? You say you will teach for a term. Which means that you might perhaps take our class.

  XIII

  Professor Joshi from Poona (I had once written to you about him) arrived here yesterday, via Nimbal. I have given him your address in Bangalore. Please introduce him to Professor Gurupadaswaami. He is keen to meet you as well, because you are one of Gurupadaswaami s pupils.

  In the letter that came yesterday, you complained that I don’t write much about myself. On the other hand, I often feel that I speak only about myself all the time—and then I become embarrassed at the thought of what you must think of me.

  What shall I write about myself? Just now I am awaiting the results. (You have promised to wire on the 16th). Like you, I shall do Philosophy for my BA—because without doing so, one can’t be serious. At the moment veena playing has more or less come to a stop. Some time ago I used to be pretty regular. I am going to practise regularly again from next Friday. Everyday I wait for your letter.

  My next letter will be all about myself.

  XIV

  I was glad to hear that you are coming after all. This time no set plan has been chalked out for you—as a lesson for me.

  Do you play tennis? If you don’t, special instruction will be arranged.

  Today is Monday, tomorrow is Tuesday, and Wednesday is the day after.

  XV

  I don’t even know how these last five days flew. In a sense it was good that you came, because seeing me at close quarters must have shown you that most of your notions about me were not founded on fact. Let me know at once if I did make a mistake anywhere.

  Edgeworth liked you a lot. He wants you to write to him once, before you proceed to England. He is going to suggest a few things to you.

  I was also very happy to see that you got on well with Appa. Write and tell me when you can what you both sat and talked about for two whole days.

  But you have completely ‘fallen’ in my esteem! They say a person oughtn’t to be so calm . . . and yet this calm guise suited you all the more.

  XVI

  In a day or two the rains will come. I am waiting for the examination results. I don’t hope to get a first, so one might as well say that the results are out. In any case, please send me the wire as planned.

  At times I feel that I haven’t understood your mind at all. I keep on re-reading what you have written and everytime I read a different meaning in it. The other day you said that every moment is unique. Does this mean that the same words denote a different meaning at different moments? Perhaps you might say that there is no ‘meaning’ as such. The structure of language, the associations of a particular time create a semblance of meaning, that’s all. I want all this spelled out in everyday speech. I want to get to understand my own mind. When I get to understand it, I shall then understand yours as well.

  I am still in the last week. How much better it would be if there were no remembrance of the past, no yearning of what’s to come! This would also set at rest Appa’s problem of ‘experience’.

  XVII

  It is ten days since I heard from you. You did send the wire as planned, though. I didn’t think I would get a first. I had a feeling that a letter of congratulations might follow the wire. Has the letter disappeared somewhere?

  Sometimes the feeling comes over me that it’s many days since you were here.

  Edgeworth is with us again. He came just yesterday. Appa called him over specially. When his writing work is completed he needs someone like Edgeworth to listen to what has been written—someone not easily swayed by an opinion. Edgeworth listens to everything a
nd then puts in a sly question in his typically English manner. When this happens Appa does get a little perturbed, but he soon demonstrates how he has drawn his entire conclusion taking into account the very point that has been raised. Occasionally he realizes that his line of argument is weak and right away notes down the point. Appa has called his book Experience and Growth, According to Edgeworth it’s going to be a revolutionary book.

  XVIII

  Your two letters came together. It appears from the post mark on the envelope that the first one was posted later.

  Please don’t write such nice letters. Because then I don’t feel like writing myself. My own letters seem to me just dry reports. No highlights, no poetry. Your mind is like a deep pool of water. Though one sees in it the changing colours of the sky, its own colours remain quite different. A colour gets to be unfamiliar even before one has learnt to get familiar with it. It smoothly sets off another.

  What would you rather have me write? Love, affection, desire—words like these have no fascination for me. I feel we use them as banners to pitch ourselves somewhere. Their colours have long since faded. I am attracted to you—but what does that mean? I have made you mine; made myself yours. Is there anything beyond this? With this give and take are we to be something more or are we to build new walls round us?